Almost a Year
by Bliss Ink
Summary: Almost a Year after the escape, Michael needs Sara again. A sequel to the previously posted story, Three Months.
1. Chapter 1

**Almost a Year **

There were only a few little things Sara let herself remember about Michael Scofield. After all, it'd been almost a year since she'd seen him last. (_8 months, 2 weeks and 4 days… not that she was counting…_)

So on the rare occasion someone at the hospital said, "Hey! Didn't you work at Fox River when those guys escaped?" She let only the little things flutter through her recall. Things like; Michael was tall. Michael had a sinewy physique and a graceful stride that had reminded Sara of a jaguar or a hungry, lone wolf. Oh, and he'd been diabetic.

Unfortunately, in those moments of pure exhaustion right before sleep took her, she often couldn't keep her brain from remembering other things about Michael…

Things like; Michael had long, slender fingers - like a pianist. Smooth, long fingers that had felt like heaven as they slid over her naked back, around her hip and under the elastic waistband of her underwear. Michael had soft, strong lips that had felt fabulous when he ran them along her neck… and the inside of her thigh. And in moments of total weakness Sara let herself remember the smile he'd flashed in the darkness of her living room. And how it was in that moment that she'd realized he had near-perfect teeth… teeth that he later used to softly nip her shoulder as he came.

She gives her head a mental shake as she walks steadily to her car in the underground parking lot of the hospital. It's 7pm, barely dark outside, but the parking garage is one giant shadow. Dark places stopped making her nervous as soon as she realized her wouldn't be lurking in them anymore.

Sara digs absently for her keys in her heavy leather shoulder bag and wonders if it's raining outside. It looked like rain at 7am when she pulled into the hospital parkade, and she realizes she never bothered to peer out a window today. It also dawns on her that, while she spent so much time remembering to forget Michael Scofield, she'd actually completely forgotten Lincoln Burrows.

So it takes her a minute to recognize the man who is hunched in the shadows beside her red Honda Civic.

Gravity makes a mockery of her body as her heart leaps into her throat and her stomach plummets into her sensible work shoes. He raises both hands, like he's giving himself up and stumbles over his words. "Please don't… I'm sorry to be here. He's… Michael… I didn't know who else to ask."

Something in her grows very cold, very fast. "What's wrong with him?"

"He needs your help," Lincoln tells her and visibly fights to stay calm. "It's an impossible thing to ask of you. I know. I just –"

Suddenly Sara is beside the car. Opening the door, throwing her bag in the bag seat, unlocking the passenger door, slipping into the driver's seat. "Get in."


	2. Chapter 2

It's a regular looking house. Sara's embarrassed by the fact that revelation surprises her. She realizes she'd been expecting an abandon warehouse or something. Instead it's a clapboard bungalow in the middle of a simple, middle class housing track. The lawn has been freshly mowed and there's even a quaint painted mailbox out front and an American flag hanging by the front stoop.

Despite the darkness of the night and the privacy of the two-car garage they've just pulled into, Lincoln adjusts the baseball cap on his head and slips quickly and stealthily out of the car. It's clear Lincoln's become an expert at being a ghost.

Sara steps out of the vehicle and heads straight to her trunk, popping it and removing the medical bag and the emergency kit that's always inside. Lincoln's disappeared from view but she sees a light from the open side door. Lincoln's in the hallway with his hat off. She realizes his hair has begun to grow back. "He's in here."

Once again Sara feels her emotional brain fighting with her medical one as she follows Lincoln through the tiny, well-kept house to the second of two bedrooms. There's a dim yellow glow from a bedside lamp and a dark haired woman sitting by the bed. Michael is lying still, a sheen of sweat covering his exposed neck and face. A heavy down duvet covers the rest of his body. Even though it's warm in the small room, Sara can see his body shake.

"Any change?" Lincoln asks, concern and fear decorating his words.

The brunette lifts her, head. Her eyes bloodshot and her voice shaking as she replies. "He's having a harder time staying conscious. A really hard time. But no more seizures."

Sara drops her bag beside the bed and the brunette moves back towards Lincoln. Medically, she begins to examine her patient. Emotionally, her brain examines the situation. Who was the woman? Why was she nursing Michael? Touching his cheek, wiping his brow… Did Michael love her?

His eyes flutter open and it takes him a few seconds to focus. Sara does not want to make eye contact but she needs to in order to gage his alertness. His mossy green eyes tear at her heart like jagged glass.

"Sara," her name leaves his parched lips with a tone of disbelief and her heart hurts.

She turns to Lincoln. "When was the last time he had a shot?"

She reaches for her medical bag and begins to look for a glucose meter. Her fingers feel thick and clumsy, making her feel slightly foolish and incompetent. If only he hadn't said her name.

"A shot? Like a tetanus shot?"

Sara looks at Lincoln like he's lost his mind. "An insulin shot. For his diabetes."

"What are you talking about? Michael doesn't have diabetes." Now it's Lincoln's turn to stare incredulously.

"How many seizures has he had?"

"Two in 12 hours. And he's been increasingly incoherent." The brunette offers up.

Sara looks down and her heart races as she sees Michael's eyes are closed. "Michael, Wake up. Michael! I need you to talk to me." She reaches into her bag and pulls out smelling salts. A quick wave under his nose has his eyes opening and she sighs outwardly in relief.

"Sara." Now it's a statement laced with what sounds like relief.

"Are you a diabetic?" She asks, taking his hand into hers and quickly pricking his skin with a glucose meter.

"No."

Quickly digging through her medical bag again she pulls out a small vile and a syringe. Checking the results of the glucose meter she pulls back the duvet and reveals Michael's naked torso. She curses the warm feeling that slithers through her at the sight. Lincoln walks forward to stand directly behind Sara.

"What's wrong with him?" Lincoln wants to know.

Sara begins to tie a piece of plastic around Michael's bicep and then takes a moment to turn to Lincoln. "I had been giving him insulin daily at the prison. He had medical files that indicated he was a diabetic."

"Michael's never had so much as a cold." Lincoln muttered and turned to the brunette who looked confused.

"Yes, well apparently he needed to gain regular access to my infirmary in his efforts to break you out," Sara realizes aloud and the anger is more than apparent in her voice. "He knew I had to be the one to administer his shots – daily. What your brother didn't anticipate was that taking insulin without a medical need can cause serious health problems"

"So these are like OD symptoms?" The brunette asks. "But he hasn't been taking it in almost a year."

Sara glances down at Michael's forearm and taps a vein, encouraging it to protrude and hoping she can see it through all the ink. "Prolonged, elevated levels of insulin can drive glucose levels down. In severe cases it's been known to limit the body's ability to release naturally stored sugars in the long-term. This can cause hypoglycemia and right now Michael seems to have a severe case."

Sara looks at him. His green eyes are closed again. She prepares the needle, filling it with the liquid from the vile and tapping it carefully. "Your brother didn't seem to understand the risks involved with his plan."

She's just about to inject him when Michael says softly. "I knew this could happen. But there was only a 47 percent chance. It was worth the risk."

She finds the vein and locks eyes with him as she plunges the needle under his skin. His eyes narrow slightly with the sting of the injection, which, if Sara wants to be honest with herself, could have made less painful.

Pulling the needle away she discards the syringe in a nearby wastebasket. She looks up at Lincoln and the brunette who has moved closer and is standing directly behind Lincoln. "I've administered a shot of Glucagon. It's a hormone produced by the pancreas that causes the liver to release its stored sugar into the bloodstream."

Lincoln's brow furrows deeper as he tries to absorb this new information – both the treatment for his brother's illness and the new risk he's just learned Michael took for him. Sara stood up and touched his shoulder. "He should be perfectly fine in a few hours."

"Thank you." Lincoln says, but there's apprehension in his voice.

"I'm going to stay and make sure."

"You shouldn't." Lincoln says.

"I know," she replies simply. "But I will."


	3. Chapter 3

She doesn't know how when she fell asleep, or for how long. The last thing she remembers is sitting in the uncomfortable chair across from Michael's bed, watching his chest rise and fall. She remembers mentally noting that he'd stopped shaking and his blood pressure was near-normal again. She remembers thinking – vowing – that this would be the only way she'd think of Michael from now on – medically. Clinically. Coldly.

What wakes her is the scent of him. It permeates her dreamless sleep and causes her consciousness to kick in. Inhaling deeply her hazel eyes open to focus on an empty bed. The down duvet – which carries his scent so strongly – is draped over her. She sits up from her slumped position with a start, drops the duvet to the ground and heads for the doorway.

The house is silent beyond the bedroom. Silent and mostly dark except for the demonstrative dance of light and shadows from the living room. The kind of erratic light that can only come from a fire. She heads towards it, her eyes darting into the kitchen, the open bathroom and the empty dinning room in search of him as she goes.

He's in front of the fireplace. One hand on the mantle above. One dangling by his naked side. In the dim, dancing light she can make out little other than his shape and the variance of his skin tone – from flesh to ink and back again.

"Feeling better?" she asks him.

"Yes. Thank you."

The silence is deep, long and thick with unspoken thoughts.

Without turning he says. "I burned the syringe you treated me with. I don't want anything with your prints around. I don't want you to be involved in this."

Sara sighs. "I've been involved in this since you walked into my infirmary."

"It's not yours any more."

"No it's not, but it was and you chose to involve me when you lied to me about your diabetes." Sara says and takes a few short steps further into the room.

"Why did you leave Fox River?"

"I realized I wasn't making a difference. I was just a band-aid on an open wound. I didn't help anyone in there."

He turns now. She drinks in the inky darkness of his exposed chest and the feeling of his stare on her. "You made a difference in me."

"Yeah. Sure. My stupidity allowed you to use me in your plan. That's not exactly what I had in mind when I took the job on." Sara turns to the window, focusing on the tiny space where the curtains don't meet, trying to figure out how late it is.

"Don't confuse caring with stupidity," Michael tells her softly but firmly. He moves away from the fireplace and towards her slightly. "I needed to be in that infirmary. I needed to break my brother out of prison and I needed to see you," he says and he's only about a foot away now. She can clearly make out his features.

"I know. I was part of the plan."

"Yes. But you also weren't," he explains as his hand comes forward and brushes her shoulder on its way to the back of her neck. "Needing you on an emotional level was never part of the plan. Needing to touch your skin, your lips, that was never in the plan."

He kisses her and she lets him. Why do these dark moment make her feel so light? What the hell was wrong with her? When he breaks the kiss she steps away from him – out of reach - in order to regain her composure. She made promises to herself. She needed to at least try to keep them.

"Michael, it's been almost a year and you're still on the run." She reminds him like he'd forgotten. "You and your…. Friends haven't figured out a way to fix this yet?"

"It's complicated," Michael tells her. "I know I can't ask you to be with me. I – "

"You can but you won't," she blurts out and his words die in mid-air. For once his intenseness is replaced by confusion. "You don't trust me. You don't want me and more than anything you don't need me anymore. If you did, I'd be here. Like that woman is."

"Veronica?" Michael asks as his brain races to catch up. "She's Lincoln's…. lawyer."

Something in Sara relishes that information way too much. Still she holds on to her anger. He deserves it. She's wounded. "You come to me in the middle of the night – because you're worried. You make love to me and then disappear without another word for almost a year. You don't do that to people you need, Michael. But you did that to me."

She leaves the room and heads back to the bedroom where she collects her things. He's healthy. She's done her job. Now she can leave. Now she has to leave… before the tears start.

Turning back to the doorway of the bedroom she realizes he's right there. Almost on top of her. She stumbles backwards till her back lies flat against the wall.

"You should go," he says as his body moves to join hers. His bare skin against the soft cotton of her blouse makes her body tingle.

"I _am_ going," she responds and try as she might, she can't keep her voice from breaking.

And she also can't move. Can't leave her position against the wall because he's still pressed into her, his long arms on either side of her. "It's because I need you," he whispers in her ear. "I need you to live a brilliant life. I need you to be safe and normal… and happy. That's why I left and didn't come back."

Sara reaches up and runs a cool hand down his cheek, over his exposed collarbone and down his bare chest. She lets it rest on his hip for a moment, which is clad only in a pair of jeans. "I can't be happy without you. I've tried and I can't do it."

His green eyes focus on her for a second before they close and he lowers his lips to hers.


End file.
